


Quiet Moments

by walkersrose



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Caryl, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, almost platonic but not quite, just the way it's on the show, kill me pls, more and more angst sorry, okay to be honest it's also
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2016-03-17
Packaged: 2018-05-26 22:45:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6258757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/walkersrose/pseuds/walkersrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometime soon when things have quieted down a little, Carol and Daryl are sharing a house in Alexandria. This was supposed to be a collection of happy scenes of their domestic life, but looks like the ghosts of the past have crept right in. I promise the story will have a happy ending though!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Treating Survivors of Childhood Abuse

Finally, they have apple juice. Homemade apple juice that tastes of the past, of summer and happiness. Not that Carol can remember being truly happy since being in her twenties, but she remembers glimpses of good days, like when Sophia learned to ride her bike, or the afternoon she and her co-workers went out for sparkling wine in the middle of the day, just because, and she remembers the good days at the prison too. It feels so distant, taking care of baby Judith with the Greene girls, Hershel teaching her medicine, her teaching the kids how to protect themselves. And Daryl, always Daryl, them doing everything together, back when she was the best version of herself she's ever been. Carol pours the juice to two tall glasses. _We aren't ashes yet,_ she reminds herself. _Maybe we can still have one more good day._

 

Carol picks the glasses from the counter, suppresses a smile when the smell reaches her nose. She walks out of the kitchen, into the living room, is about to call out for Daryl when she sees him and stops abruptly.

 

Daryl sits on the sofa, crouched in an unconventional angle, looking - as always - a little like he doesn't belong in the domestic scene; he's an outdoor man through an through. But it's not this wild animal tame and calm on her couch that makes Carol stop, it's the book on his lap. _Treating Survivors of Childhood Abuse._ There is the slightest movement on his lips as his eyes scan the page.

 

Carol remembers Atlanta and the way he hastily hid the book back in his bag when she saw it. Quietly she turns on her heels to go back to the kitchen.

 

"Don't."

 

She turns around. Daryl is looking up at her, the way he always does, a hundred percent of his attention focused on her. It used to make her a little uncomfortable, now it makes her feel confident, it makes her feel _seen_.

 

"I could use some of that," Daryl says and gestures at the glasses.

 

Carol smiles and comes over to the couch, handing him a glass. Their hands touch briefly when he takes it and drinks.

 

"Damn good," he says.

 

Carol sips from her glass and laughs. "It is." She puts her glass on the mahogany table by the sofa. Her eyes flicker to the book. "You were reading," she says neutrally.

 

"Yeah." Daryl shifts on the sofa, takes another gulp from his glass. "Tough shit, reading."

 

Carol nods. They never talked about it, so she doesn't know what has happened to him - yet she does know. All the stories, they're the same in the end. She looks out of the window. "Wanna take a break? Have a cigarette?"

 

"Actually, was thinking... if you'd read with me," Daryl says, raising his eyes to meet hers.

 

There's a lump in her throat that she wasn't even aware of. "Of course," she says, picking the book from Daryl's lap. "Where did you leave off?"

 

He points at the heading " _Emotional Effects of Child Abuse._ "

 

"Alright," she says. She clears her throat, but she hesitates. Her eyes are stuck on the ugly, clinical words. It's what he wants, but it isn't _right_. She glances at him, he's looking at her, studying her, as usual, and the old wound is in the bottom of his eyes.

 

"Come here," she says softly and extends her arm towards him. Carefully, he moves himself closer to her, not taking his eyes off her face. She gives him a small smile and wraps her free arm around his shoulder. She can feel him breathe. It's better.

 

She clears her throat again, and softly, gingerly begins:

 

_"Child abuse can cause a range of emotional effects. Children who are constantly ignored, shamed, terrorized or humiliated suffer at least as much, if not more, than if they are physically assaulted. Abused children can grow up experiencing insecurities, low self-esteem, and lack of development. Many abused children experience ongoing difficulties with trust, social withdrawal, trouble in school, and forming relationships."_

 

As she reads, Daryl shifts a couple of times; she lets him. She keeps reading, but keeps a slow pace. She always loved reading aloud, to Sophia, to the kids at the prison. She loves the way her voice creates a world of its own, how she is just a vessel for the words. She loves the way time moves so slowly, and everything is here when you read. Of course, this is different, but she loves Daryl no less than any of the children she's been a mother to. She just wants him to be alright.

 

Carol reads, and Daryl listens with rapt attention. She wants to protect him like he's always protected her, put away the hurtful book. (It's not like it doesn't hurt something inside her, too, but she'd never say that to him.) So she doesn't stop, but her fingers find their way to Daryl's hair, kneading it softly, stroking his head. He lays his head on her shoulder and she wonders, what did she ever do to earn the miracle of his trust. And she reads. 

 

Her voice doesn't waver as she finishes the chapter: _"The long-term impact of emotional abuse has not been studied widely, but recent studies have begun to document its long-term consequences. Emotional abuse has been linked to increased depression, anxiety, and difficulties in interpersonal relationships. Victims of child abuse and neglect are more likely to commit crimes as juveniles and adults."_

 

The room is silent, from a distance they can hear people on the streets of Alexandria. Carol swallows, closes the book, puts it on her lap. Daryl takes the book from her, places it on the table. Carol's eyes search him, but he seems calm. Her arm is still on his shoulder. He turns, looks at her. He's always been the one who can see through her. His strong arms come around her and pull her closer. She rests her head on his shoulder and breathes in the car oil and the damp forest, his smell. She lets her hand wander back into his hair and caress him.

 

"You came out okay, Daryl," she whispers. "You came out so much better than okay."

 

He hugs her a little tighter, then eventually, he lets go. "I could use the cigarette now," he says, his voice hoarse.

 

"Yeah, me too," Carol says.

 

A moment later they sit on the porch, sharing a cigarette. The street is empty, a bird is singing in a nearby tree. Carol steals a glance at Daryl. "Hey, you doing okay?" she asks.

 

He exhales loudly, smoke billowing in a little cloud. He watches it vanish in the gentle breeze. "Yeah, I'm okay." He looks up, then at her, looks at nothing but her again. "You good too, Carol?" he asks.

 

She looks down, then wryly up a his searching face. "I'm good." She thinks, _As long as you're good, I'm at least a bit good, too._

 

 


	2. You (Don't) Know Me

Daryl knows he could pick whatever he wanted from the things he comes across on the supply runs and no one would know; but mostly, he doesn't. He doesn't really need anything any better than everyone else and Carol, she's okay too. So they go every Monday to get the supplies from Octavia just like everyone else.

 

It's a cloudy day but Daryl doesn't mind, the cooler air is a welcome change. He doesn't know why Carol still walks around in those thin button-up shirts. Isn't her style anyway. As they walk, she greets the neighbours and she's friendly - she's always been friendly, she's always been nice like a proper girl from a good family, but sometimes the smile doesn't reach her eyes. She's still doing it. The housewife thing.

 

He doesn't even notice he's been lagging behind before she slows down. She never lets him walk behind her - he and Carol, they walk side by side. He can't really keep watch on her that way, but it's not like he can tell her. She'd laugh at him again. He has accepted that's the way it is.

 

So they walk on. Carol is easily keeping up with him, he's not in a hurry and she's got a confident stride. There is no use thinking of the past, but he knows she's changed just as much as he has. Maybe more. Her shoulder brushes against his. He glances at her, her eyes smile up at him. It's alright, despite the changes she is still the same; or more like, _they_ 're still the same. Now her mouth is twitching too.

 

"What?" he grunts. He's got no clue why she's smirking at him again.

 

"Nothing," she says and smiles sweetly, then looks ahead like it was nothing indeed.

 

He sighs. _You don't know me,_ she said once, with that same smirk, and sometimes those words come back to him. Maybe he really doesn't. Sometimes he has no idea what she is thinking. Some of her normal friends - Maggie, Tobin, hell even Rick, maybe they'd know what she's up to. Well he's not gonna ask.

 

Her shoulder brushes against his again. She's there. For whatever reason, she's with him of all people.

 

He frowns. "Hey, you okay without your... what's that fancy word?"

 

She laughs. "Cardigan. And that's a completely normal word."

 

"You okay without your cardy-whatever?"

 

She glances at him, looks at him up and down with a smirk he can't read again, and it's like she was gonna say something, but she just smiles normally then. "It's not that cold. I actually kinda like it."

 

"Me too."

 

"And besides, we're here."

 

There's a bustle of people around the supply storage. Daryl stops. They're all talking, all moving around, like ants crawling all over their nest. Maybe with less purpose though. He's never been too comfortable with so many people around. Not enough air, really. And can't hear the important stuff over their cawing.

 

"Come on," Carol says. "I'm not going to carry everything back alone."

 

Her eyes are warm and she's by his side again. And she's waiting, but when she waits for him she's _actually waiting_ unlike so many other people. She's got time for him. Shit, it's almost like she can read his mind. It doesn't make him feel uncomfortable though. He trusts her. He takes a step into the crowd and she follows, lightly pressing against him as they navigate between their noisy neighbours. He wonders if she knows he doesn't really mind crowded places - not with _her_.


	3. Look At The Flowers

When Daryl and Carol took this house, they went through every room slowly, marvelling at the traces of life left behind. Carol believes no one has lived here after - well, _after_. No wonder really - it's on the outskirts of Alexandria, there's no basement and the bathrooms used to leak. But it's a quiet house, and there's a beautiful old apple tree on the yard. Settling down had been quite simple too.

 

Back when they found the master bedroom Daryl had thrown himself on the bed and bounced on it like a little boy. "Look at this! Just like one o' them posh hotels," he had exclaimed. "Damn right if this ain't the best bed I've ever slept on!"

 

Carol had laughed then. Really, it was just a bed.

 

Daryl had looked up at her and stopped. "'less you wan' it that is." He'd sat up. "'S too fine for the likes of me anyway."

 

"No, keep it," Carol had said. Daryl had kept looking at her. "Keep it, I mean it. I don't want it."

 

That was partially true. The bed looks vaguely like the one that had been hers and Ed's, and maybe if she'd have slept in it, his ghost would have settled on the empty space beside her in the quiet hours of the night. But she hadn't really been thinking of herself. She had smiled and said: "And it seems to make you happier than anything after that cow. Who am I to stand between a man and his happiness?"

 

Daryl had scoffed.

 

She had winked at him then, and left to find a room for herself before he could protest. She had settled on a room that had been a child's. She had blocked all the memories of Sophia out of her head and methodically cleaned the room of anything that whispered stories of its previous owner. (Piles after piles of comic books, pink and yellow curtains, colourful pens neatly arranged in a glass jar, bubblegum wrappers in the bin, a headless barbie doll under the bed.) She had redecorated every room in the house with anything she could get her hands on. Daryl had not understood, but he had left her to it. Only when she had suggested flowers on his windowsill he had groaned. For him, the room is only for sleeping. Well, she had planted some chrysantemums anyway.

 

Carol's room is not for sleeping, it's for trying to sleep. The dark curtains and cool blue shades of the furniture don't help, nor do the carnations outside her window. The dead come to her every night these days, the ones she's killed and the ones she couldn't protect. She covers her ears not to hear them, she closes her eyes not to see them, but they are still there, a weight on her chest, the smell of blood clinging onto her.

 

Most nights she can force the sleep to come, maybe after an hour, maybe after two, but it comes at her bidding and chases the dead away until the morning light. Tonight is one of the worse nights. She fell asleep once but woke up to Tyreese's feverish eyes pleading her to heal him. His had been such a stupid, haphazard way to go. But that's how many of them had gone anyway. In the new world, you needed to be careful, but even that didn't guarantee your safety. Carol misses Tyreese, the way his mere presence suggested everything would be alright, his gentle smile, their easy discussions. His good heart. And selfishly she misses his broad shoulders carrying half of the weight, half of the nightmare that swallowed up Mika and Lizzie. Now the burden is hers to shoulder alone.

 

Carol gets up, wraps herself in the dressing gown with mock oriental patterns and tiptoes to the kitchen. She knows she won't be able to sleep for a while. She takes a glass and fills it with water, as cold as she can get. She sits down on a stool in the dark and looks out of the window. It's almost full moon. In a flash she remembers her eccentric aunt who insisted spiritually sensitive people can't sleep at full moon. Carol used to think her aunt was a little silly, but now she'd give anything for one of those annual visits to have coffee in her claustrophobic flat and have her read the horoscopes for everyone in their family. Carol drains her glass, washes and dries it, puts it away. It still strikes her sometimes how many things are gone. And sometimes she feels so, so lonely.

 

Her feet take her back up the stairs, behind Daryl's door. It is a little ajar as always; he says he wants to hear what's going on in the house. You could consider his watchfulness a little ridiculous, but she's always thought he's prudent. Even a place like this shouldn't make them soft, shouldn't make them forget what's out there.

 

"C'min."

 

She pushes the door a little, steps in with her eyes on the floor. "I'm sorry I woke you."

 

"I weren't sleeping," he says.

 

She looks up and sees him standing by the window, leaning against the wall. He is only wearing a pair of worn grey pants. She can see the silvery scars trailing from his side to his back but she makes no mention of them. There's a reason he always wears a shirt except when he's washing - or sleeping, apparently. But he doesn't shy away from her eye now.

 

"One of those nights?" she asks. She supposes everyone gets them in this new world.

 

"Yeah," he says, shifting a little awkwardly. So maybe he _does_ mind after all.

 

"I'm sorry I intruded on your privacy," she says. The words sound like mockery to her own ears. "We all need to be alone sometimes," she amends, and turns to go.

 

"You need to be alone now?"

 

She stops. _Damn Daryl Dixon._ He makes a habit of that, saying the wrong thing. Or the right. But he doesn't make this _easy_. And he's looking at her again, the way he does and makes her feel like he sees through her, whatever role she's trying to play.

 

"No," she admits. Her voice quavers.

 

"Well you ain't intruding then."

 

She tries a laugh. It comes out a little mangled. She takes a couple of steps, sits down on his bed. "It is soft," she admits quietly. He's still looking at her. She glances at him. "You wanna talk?" she asks. It seems like a fair trade.

 

"Nah, never been a talker and ye know that. 'S just thinkin' of Merle, 's all."

 

She nods.

 

"You wanna talk?" he asks.

 

She shakes her head. "Not really."

 

"You gotta sometime. Said so yeself."

 

Carol looks at the flowers outside Daryl's window, the moonlight giving them silver outlines. It's so peaceful, so quiet, she can hear Daryl breathing a couple of meters away. And the whole room is gently wrapped in his familiar smell, safe.

 

"I shot Lizzie," she says abruptly. "She..." her voice breaks. "She killed Mika. With a knife. If Tyreese and I hadn't come back when we did, she'd have killed Judith too."

 

Daryl doesn't say anything. What could anyone find to say about such a horror?

 

"She thought the walkers were people. She thought... she thought her sister would come back and play with her." Carol is crying now, but she's keeping her voice even. "She was luring walkers to the cottage we lived in. She used to lure them to the prison too."

 

Carol rests her head against her knees. The sobs are rocking her body now. "She... poor child... she wasn't right in the head... she never..."

 

The bed creaks and Daryl's warm arms come around her. Gratefully, Carol leans against him. She gathers her voice and her courage. She needs to get this out now. "And poor Mika," she says, wiping her face with her sleeve. "She didn't have a mean bone in her body. Too good for what the world is now."

 

Daryl's hand is cupping the back of her head, gentler than she deserves. "Tyreese and I agreed Lizzie is a liability. To us. To Judith. So I took her outside to look at the flowers and I shot her in the back of the head. She was sorry she had pointed a gun at me earlier."

 

Carol is crying again. She's starting to have a headache but she can't stop. Daryl is holding her.

 

After a while, Carol carefully unentangles herself from Daryl. She wipes her face again, lies back on the bed and breathes deep. "I only wish it would have ended in some other way," she says in a small voice.

 

Daryl sits on the bed next to her. "There ain't no good choices sometimes. Shit's shit sometimes."

 

There's a soft thud and Daryl is laying on the bed next to her. They look at the moonlit ceiling together.

 

"You did good," Daryl says after a while. "You got Lil' Asskicker out in one piece. You did better by her than I e'er did by your little girl. And you saved us all, that you did."

 

Carol reaches out her hand then, takes Daryl's in hers. Squeezes it. Hopes he knows how grateful she is, not just for his words, but for everything ever since they first met.

 

"Saw one of 'em cherokee roses a while back," Daryl says. "Was wonderin' if you'd like one in th' garden."

 

Carol closes her eyes. She remembers the story Daryl told her back at the Greene farm. With a world full of mothers with broken hearts, no wonder the flowers are blooming.

 

"Well, next time you see one, feel free to nip a hip and bring it home." She means it as a joke, but her tone fails to achieve the lightness required for jesting.

 

"I did," he says. "Been waitin' for the right moment to ask."

 

"Thank you," she says. She doesn't know what else to say. He is silent too, her hand is still in his. She keeps her eyes closed. Suddenly she's very tired.

 

She wakes up sometime later, still in Daryl's bed, covered by his blanket. He sleeps next to her, breathing deeply, his warmth reaching her across the bed. She edges closer. He looks so carefree when he sleeps, so peaceful. On a whim she leans closer and places the ghost of a kiss on his scarred shoulder. He twitches a little but does not wake.

 

Carol lies down on the bed again, this time so close she can feel Daryl's breath on her skin. She studies his sleeping face some more. Everything is alright. She closes her eyes and sleeps better than in ages. The dead do not come.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this lovely tumblr post: http://berrybird.tumblr.com/post/139441766985/some-quiet-moments-for-your-ships . The child abuse text is from Wikipedia.
> 
> Please leave kudos and comments if you feel like it! :)


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